The deed is finally done, and done very well, I might add.
The Warrior lies dead on the floor of my home, my castle, amid the strewn bones of centuries worth of heroes and heroines and even a thief or two. The fragments of the Armour of God lie broken around the various martyrs who had used them. Each piece committed to its task of removing me and my kind from the earth, each piece hopelessly beyond repair.
Funny though that after centuries of dust they still gleam. A sickening reminder of the excellent craftsmanship of man. Oh well, I've clipped another possible reign of sweetness and joy before its bud might unfold.
I run my tongue over my twisted and wretched teeth, remembering how they use to be, indeed how I use to look before the Fall. I wonder what it might of been like if I hadn't rebelled, if I hadn't joined The Morning Star in his rebellion. No matter, what's done is done. That way lies madness.
The last Hero is twisted at an impossible angle in the corner, his precious Breastplate Of Righteousness shattered in shards. He was the last of the six, as was the accursed Breastplate. Forged centuries before by his ancestors to account for my master and those such as myself who serve him.
How foolish! They place there trust in there own ability to save themselves, into there devices and weapons, not realizing that the true armour of God is a spiritual weapon. All the better for us to use it against them. Leviathan, the Authority of the oceans, sand grain by sand grain, washes away the shore. Wyrm, the Authority of the earth trembles and man's world erupts from wrenching ground and fiery mountains and finally my master, Ayrian.
Aryian, the Authority of the air, The Son of the Morning Star, the first to rebel. The other two are under his authority as am I and as are men.
The noble bowman lies in pieces along the corridor. I can still see the look on his face when his silvered arrows bounced of my hide. Ha! what a pathetic attempt, as if silver could save him from me.
Only there female companion still draws breath. A bard of types i think she was. I have granted her a few moments more that i might mock her and see her curse the Church that she had served.
"Do you hear me lovely bard?" i ask.
"Yes, demon", she weazes. I must of damaged her lungs. Who can remember what one does in the heat of battle? But i digress.
"Why do i still live demon?" she asks.
"For a bit of amusement, sweet bard. If you will curse all that is good and beautiful and true and noble, i will let you leave here - or atleast give you a quick death, depending on how the mood takes me."
"No thanks", she answers.
"Why not? You have failed, as did the others before you. You were the last. It is over. The good guys lose six-nothing."
She does not respond. Is she dead?. I continue non-theless,
"And that 'hero' you accompanied din`t even touch me. the last one atleast caught me a good one across the shoulder before i dismembered him."
"We were the worst of the lot you faced?" She inquires.
"Oh, i wouldn't go that far", i say.
"But you were hardly the best."
"Humour a defeated and dieing woman and tell me, who was the best?"
I chuckle.
"Easily done", i answer.
"Pride of the Kingdom of Milita, came so close to killing me it was beautiful. The arc of his blade, The Spirit, came down like a bolt thrown by God himself. The muscles of his arms rippled like the tides of the sea. He glowed with the sweat of his exertions. He did not curse me once, his silence was poetic. i stood transfixed. Barely, only barely did I stop him, and it took all of my sorcerous ability, rather than the strength of my body. Yes it was Sebastion of the Kingdom of Militia. A mighty man among mighty men."
"Alas, poor Jesse could not beat an act like that."
"No, nor any other i have encountered. And now my lords reign will never end, for the darkness has vanquished the light. There are no more to be raised up against us."
"Of the broken weapons i see on the floor", she says, "tell me which is the blade Spirit and where do the bones of Sebastion lie, that i might see where our brightest hope fell."
"You, as your whole kind, talk to much. It is time to end this discussion."
"But i only see the Armour of God and five sword hilts amid the ruin"
I extend my claws and rear to strike her. But she holds me, by no magic but by a single statement:
"You have not yet won."
"How can you say that, when you are the last?"
"You lied," she continues, "When you said that your lord's reign will never end, that the darkness has vanquished the light. You do not see your own weakness."
"I have no weakness!"
Through the gloom i see her smile.
"Very well," I say.
"You do not have to curse goodness, truth and nobility as the price of a quick death. Just tell me of the weakness that you see"
"I have always considered the benefits of a quick death to be somewhat marginal," she replies.
"Tell me, so i can protect it from exploitation."
She had the stomach to laugh. I resolve to make her death a very slow thing, regardless of what i said.
"I will tell you," she says, "and you will still be unable to guard against it: I see now that you will die when you know love."
I fall to the floor with laughter.
"Love? Love! Your mind is as broken as your body, to accuse me of such a foul failing! Love indeed!."
My howlings ring through the dead castle, i decapitate her and roll her head back along the antechamber, slinging it by the hair. My sides ache from the strain of laughing.
After a time i pick up someones leg and munch on it. Rather tough, must have been the hero's.
My lord Aryian, always and future ruler of the realm, entered my home that evening, to admire my work, to congratulate me on ages well spent.
"demon!" he commands after a time.
"Why is it that i behold the remains of only the Armour of God and five swords when all of the heroes and heroines have fallen before you?!"
I chuckle, "There are only five here," I explain.
"the other is in the upper storeys of the tower. That hero used the aide of the giant eagles to enter differently than the others, and i stopped him and his canine companion there. He was a cunning one."
"I wish to see it myself" he snarled.
"Of course. Follow me."
I lead him up into the tower, i hear him draw a breath.
"This man and that dog of his are intact, the blade unbroken!"
I laugh again. "But harmless, he and his companion are both frozen in time, now and forever. This one i bound by magic, rather than rending him with my strength. I come here to admire him on occasion. He is the best, he came very close to destroying me."
"Fool!" he cries, "A spell can be undone and broken! I see it is Sebastion and he wields the Spirit! We must finish them now to assure our triumph!"
He prepares himself for a confrontation.
I turn again and regard the point of that blade i had halted but an inch from my breast when my spell froze all motion and left both Sebastion and his familiar frozen in time, like stone statues of judgement and execution forever delayed. Spirits edge was the nearest approach to perfection i have ever seen. Even his familiar has a noble bearing. I could not help but admire the dog since i had been twisted into a similar form after the Fall.
I hear my master; "Move away, demon."
And i hear another voice -my own- shout the words that break the spell, and allow time to flow again, that allows history to right itself. I knew it would come to this, but i donīt care.
Finally, the Spirits marvellous thrust is completed, after a millennia of delay.
Then it slides from me in an eruption of my bodys blood, my life force ebbs away. I fall backward. Death can be cheated, but not time.
My final sights are seeing the canine, finally, leap at Aryian. A leap hat was meant for me. As the Spirit blade, wet from my blood, is turned on Aryian.
I glanced at its welders unhelmed head, at the whiteness of his face, teeth clenched within its grin...
--FIN
Copyright Michael Mifsud 1989